The Overflow
by wirewrappedlily
Summary: Stiles sits in Ms. Morrell's office and talks about drowning like he isn't doing it that very second. Sterek. Warnings for thoughts of suicide. T for language.


Stiles sits in Ms. Morrell's office and talks about drowning like he isn't doing it that very second.

Like he hasn't been doing that slowly since...well, since he can remember.

It wasn't even quantified as being since his mother died: Stiles has been slowly dying himself since he was born, in agony and never-ending loneliness. Stiles knows intimately what it feels like to be suspended in this world of near-silence, watching the world move around him and unable to struggle his way free; on the very cusp of giving up. There's no screaming in that world: no breathing. There's a murky near-dark. A twilight that will never end and never let you go.

He's intimately familiar with wanting to let the water in.

He's tried to.

Ms. Morrell tells him that if he's going through hell, he needs to just keep going.

Stiles wonders if there's an end to hell; if there's some door out that doesn't come with too many pills and a blatant attempt that ends in nothing more than his skin twitching over too-tired bones.

He thinks of Derek and how he'd looked in the bottom of the pool, and the thought hurts; the first thing he's really felt, actually acknowledged the sensation of, in days.

His body goes through the motions, always has, but his mind...his mind isn't attached to that frail, fragile thing.

And, if he was being honest with himself, he'd said no to the bite simply because the thought of being trapped even more so in this hell was instinctively _not_ what he wants. But he doesn't let himself be that honest; can't dwell on the fact that it's been years of trying and failing to die, even if he has stopped actively trying to overdose.

He puts himself in the danger, though. True, it's about Scott. Derek. Erica, Isaac, Boyd. Lydia. He puts himself in the danger, and he just hopes for the release. He wants to be taken away; anywhere has to be better than here.

He puts himself in the danger and he gets himself out, he saves his friends-he saves his enemies sometimes, too. He saves even his worst enemy, has from the get-go, just by saving Derek. Because Derek has a knack for saving him.

He wins the lacrosse game, and he survives all that comes after. And, with the pain throbbing in his cheek and the slight taste of blood on the tip of his tongue when it touches his lip, Stiles knows that he could do it; he really could. Because no one would really care.

His dad doesn't know he's ever even thought about it. The thing about his inability to die is that he wakes up unscathed, always does. No one knows; no one ever will.

Stiles will never, ever tell anyone about the pain. He's kept it secret for most of his life, and it doesn't matter; it'd never matter. He is a passing blip where his friends are gravitational forces. He's barely alive, it's not like it'd matter if he died. There's no one to leave behind. This is his life; these people who lie to him, bully and abuse him. He's weak, useless, and a burden when it comes down to it. Scott would man up without him; Lydia would go on happily with Jackson, oblivious as she has always been and will always be; Erica, Isaac, and Boyd wouldn't even need to notice; and Derek almost assuredly wouldn't.

Allison looks at him sometimes, though. Like she sees it, sees him.

Allison doesn't do it in a way that makes him think she pities him; she does it in a way that makes him think she might actually feel the same way. And Allison is a Disney princess brought to life; she shouldn't feel this way at all.

So Stiles does what he was born to do; he confronts her on it, talks to her about it, and, when they're done, she's confessed the dark, empty, aching place inside of her and she's filled it with _you are not alone_. Stiles feels bad that she feels a kinship with him now; that she feels he's safer, now, too. He feels bad because he hasn't even touched the darkness, the ache inside. He hasn't even glanced at it. For all he's saved her, he doesn't even want to try to save himself. She says that it gets hard sometimes; that it comes in waves. He promises that he'll be there for her, help her pull herself above water. He's only lying a little bit, because he does intend to; he's _stopped trying_-but, should occasion arise, it's not like he'll say no. It isn't throwing his life away so much as it is leaving a spare paper on a picnic table; if it gets blown away, he won't care.

It's in the middle of the Alpha Pack clusterfuck with Isaac turning into Scott's new bestest friend and Derek battling the forces of evil Alphas that Stiles finds out about the sirens that've appeared in water sources all over Beacon Hills.

Of course, this coincides with a freak blizzard and the coldest temperatures they've ever seen, but Stiles doesn't care. He does the research, he figures it out; all of it...and then he realizes that he has nowhere to go with it. Scott won't really care; he's all wrapped up in Allison and Isaac and worrying over what Derek'll do next, and Derek himself, Plan B with the Eyebrows of Doom and the mass of a fucking mountain, he's too busy staving off the fucking Alphas and not letting them kill anyone. Stiles probably couldn't find Derek right now even if he tried.

So he gets his things together. He leaves the paper on the picnic bench with not a damn thing to catch it in the wind.

He knows how the sirens work, how they really work: they love human skin and they delight in feasting on human hearts. From what Stiles has figured out, they will wear said skin, and love it even more when it's pale and pure as a wedding dress. He fits that description enough that he knows he could lure them in.

The problem is, he has to figure out where their base of operations is, and as far as he can tell, the closest he'll get to the water table running under Beacon Hills is the lake.

It's frozen over, and Stiles's gut tells him that he will die if he goes out onto it.

He goes out there anyway.

It's not surprising when the ice cracks under him, freezing water biting into his clothes, at his fingers, but Stiles's heart jumps painfully anyway. At least no one will know, he thinks. It can be an accident; no one will know.

Stiles falls through the ice completely, and the cold feels like knives, it steals even the feeling of breath away from him, as if it's compressed all air out of his lungs, and he's going to die before he gets the chance to even think of fighting. He bobs back up to the surface anyway, and he knows there's a hole somewhere, where he's fallen through, but it's not there anymore. His hands slide against the ice, almost like he's looking for a way back to the surface. Things start to go blank, and he feels something closing around him. He hopes the sirens are happy enough with his skin; his heart's been a dead thing for too long now.

* * *

The first time Stiles wakes up, he feels as if he's about to die.

* * *

The second time Stiles wakes up, he's in a kind of cold sweat, almost. There's sweltering heat surrounding him, and Stiles can't shake the feeling that after that cold, even if this is the real Hell, he wouldn't mind.

"Stay still." Derek growls, and those two words actually rumble through Stiles, so there's a very good chance that the thing he is laying on is, in fact, Derek Hale. Only, there's more than one person here… "You fucking idiot." Derek hisses, his hand reaching down and closing around Stiles's as they tremble slightly, and looking down gives Stiles the opportunity to see Allison asleep on his left, Scott curled around his knees almost, Boyd and Erica around his legs on the other side, Isaac at his hip, and Lydia of all people on his other arm. Danny and Jackson react to the sound of Derek's voice, standing immediately and looking sharply at Stiles, then to Derek who must give them some sort of signal, both of them leaving quickly and efficiently. "What were you _thinking_?" Derek's voice rumbles through him from where he's laying against Derek's chest, and Stiles's head kind of turns from the vibration, skimming the frozen skin of his ear against Derek's chest, a delicious moment of heat against him before Derek removed his hand from around Stiles's, cupping his hands around his neck and situating his thumbs, warm and good, behind Stiles's ears. His Adam's apple brushes back and forth along two of Derek's fingertips, and Stiles shudders slightly, his body inching back into the warmth just as much as he wants to be gone; to be done.

"Sirens…" Stiles croaks, and it's all that he can manage to get out, Derek's body swallowing him somehow, bleeding more warmth into him than a blast furnace, and everyone else shifts over and around him, too, muttering in their sleep and muzzily waking. Lydia's eyes flash with rage and she hits him not quite lightly in the stomach, eliciting a whimper on his part because he's still thawing and everything _hurts_; Allison has tears in her eyes, and she cups his cheeks softly, kissing his forehead as they spill over; Scott and Isaac rouse almost simultaneously, and Scott just simply clutches Stiles's thigh, his eyes huge and hurt; Erica flashes him a small smile though there are tears in her eyes, too, and Boyd looks like he's falling in with Lydia with the anger. "Th-There're...sirens...in the...in the water table…" Stiles manages, and Allison pulls herself together with all the haste of an Argent on a hunt.

"Those corpses with pieces of skin missing? And hearts?" Stiles nods shakily, Derek's hands loose enough to let him, but present enough to be bleeding warmth into him. Stiles has a moment of wishing it was just him and Derek, and Derek was on top of him, pressing his heat into him from the front and pinning him down from getting the urge to leave again. Part of him feels like Derek would be the one strong enough, of all of them, to fight off that need that's constantly at his throat. Derek's a warrior and a mountain of a man-not just in stature, but in personality, too. The power is there, it's inherent, and Scott will never be as strong as Derek, or as steadfast. Derek could level worlds if he wanted to; and he touches like he isn't there sometimes simply because he doesn't want to leave a bruise. Stiles feels a scalding hot tear run down his cheek, and the pain in his body really hits him, the fiery agony spreading through his limbs at the cold-to-heat, the ache in his lungs and his throat...the painful throb of his heart, panicking from under the water, when he was leaden and his body couldn't react at all. The wolves can hear his heart, he knows, and Allison and Lydia both spring into action at the sight of the tear, enfolding him on either side as Danny and Jackson return laden with a tray each. Erica takes his hand in both of hers, and Derek's arms slide down around his chest, one molding around his arm and taking the hand Erica left behind. Stiles wants to curl into it, curl into Derek and let him growl the rest of the world away so that Stiles can hide again. Stiles gets the sense that Derek wouldn't, though. Derek wouldn't let him hide. If only just to the sourwolf himself, he wouldn't let Stiles curl back into the empty place. He'd bring him out, lay him bare, and he'd _study_ every inch of him, darkness and light.

At least, he would if he cared to.

Derek wraps around him even more securely before sitting up and sliding back on the bed they're all piled on, Stiles's head propped in the curve of his collarbone and shoulder. Stiles realizes they're both bare-chested, and that Stiles can feel Derek's legs against his around a pair of boxers that are definitely not the briefs he started out with.

Stiles looks around the room, and this...this place is Derek's. Scott is sitting in the enemy camp, and the enemy has to have called him here. Stiles is painfully thankful that Derek's made it through everything he's been put through; that he's managed. Stiles feels a sharp bloom of warmth in his chest, and Derek's arms tighten just enough to let Stiles know that Derek isn't going anywhere.

Stiles doesn't object too much when Lydia takes Jackson's tray from him and starts carefully spooning honeyed tea into his mouth, Erica withdrawing to follow Boyd, Jackson and Danny out into the other room. Stiles's hand shakes as he takes the mug, the heat stinging in his hand, and Derek's hand closes over his bicep, a comforting weight. Stiles let Lydia take the cup after a few sips and reduced his objections to silent pouting when she started spoon-feeding him soup. Allison runs her hand over his cheek and hair, kissing his forehead again and shooting Derek a heavy look that Stiles feels a flash of anger at. Derek's the one that pulled him out, Derek's the one that let them know; Derek doesn't deserve to be looked at like he's the enemy anymore, or at all. It kind of tears Stiles apart inside.

Lydia rubs his cheek softly and kisses the tip of his nose once he's done and drowsy, sleepy and mostly warm. Derek takes a second mug from Jackson as he brings it in, and he angles Stiles so that he can hold the mug himself and let Stiles drink, "This would burn your hand if you took it yourself." Derek tells him by way of explanation, and Stiles obediently drinks it, the question not even occurring to him. Warm milk spiked with some kind of alcohol starts a slow, comfortable fire in his chest and belly even more than the soup does, and Stiles makes a conscious effort to stay awake to drink it all. When he has, Derek seems to approve, but he shifts Stiles, and slides out from under him, and that isn't what Stiles wants at all.

Derek cocoons him in the thick layer of thin blankets, and Stiles is out before he can talk, he thinks, but he would've asked or begged him to stay.

There's one last kiss, on the very corner of his mouth, and Stiles has no idea who gave it to him.

When Stiles wakes to light streaming through the thin curtains and a body that feels like a very sore, very limp noodle, he wakes to find Derek sprawled out behind and around him, face just inches away from his neck, snoring softly with his eyelashes against his cheekbones. He looks dangerous even like this; and so beautiful Stiles loses his breath for a long moment, studying the sharp angles and soft-looking hollows of Derek's face.

Stiles also wakes in his own bed, in his own room. With Derek wrapped around him.

The bed is too small for this, Stiles knows. Hell, Derek's bed was also too small for a damn puppy pile, but Derek is not a small man, and Stiles, for all that he is actually built like a beanpole, still has decently broad shoulders and_ body mass_. He analyzes what he feels, and Derek's lower half his mostly under him, his upper half quasi-bent onto his side, and that cannot be comfortable, and Stiles has to resist the urge to try-and fail, because he would most certainly fail-and manhandle Derek more onto the bed. Stiles knows that he only has a few moments, though, because Derek will hear that he's awake, will wake up himself, and Stiles actually holds his breath, trying not to make a damn sound, because he doesn't want Derek going anywhere.

Derek's eyes flash open immediately, his body tense and coiling, red flashing into his eyes as he sits up and stares at Stiles in panic.

Stiles blinks up at him and breathes, and Derek's tension just...runs out of him. His eyes soften for just the tiniest moment, and Stiles makes his limp noodle body move; forces himself mostly upright and seizes Derek into his arms before he can even think. Maybe he is a little more blatant in his death wish than he'd given himself credit for.

But Derek shocks him to his foundations: he hugs Stiles back, hard. He cradles Stiles's head in his hand and he breathes deeply for a moment as if he's steadying himself, "You are still an idiot." Derek mutters, "Don't do that to me again, or I'll save your ass just to kill it in slower and more painful ways."

Stiles nods, clinging on and desperate to never let go, and Derek doesn't seem to care. "I've lost track, who owes who their lives now?" Derek doesn't chuckle, but Stiles feels like he can feel Derek's chest ease a bit.

"Honestly, what the hell were you thinking?" Derek still hasn't let him go.

"I couldn't find you, and I didn't even know where to start looking...Scott's...Scott's too busy with Isaac and Allison and making himself Alpha. He would've come, but I think I'd probably be dead anyway."

Derek's breath stutters in an odd way, almost a laugh, but choked and hard, like it's a sound so rarely used his vocal chords can't piece together how to make it, "That's probably true about Scott, but you could've found me-"

"Part of my reasoning is that you could've killed me. Scott's declared himself an enemy, I thought-"

Derek's hold actually tightens, and Stiles finds he likes the feeling of being made helpless against someone so strong; finds that for once in his goddamn life, he can take solace and shake the rest of it off, "I would've taken your call, Stiles. I would've seen you at the very least. And this...this was fucking stupid. You weren't just on thin ice in the most literal sense, you were alone, in a lake full of sirens that would've eaten you and worn your skin, and you had to go through a forest that could be full of Alphas to get there. _Smelling like Scott_."

"Once upon a time, I think you would've killed me, though-"

Derek lets him go only to grip his arms, his eyes wild and angry, but he has far too much control to let even a hint of red slip, "Stiles, you fucking idiot! You think I would ever have let you get hurt if I'd had the chance to stop it?! You think I wouldn't kill myself to protect you?! Why do you think I haven't laid so much as a finger on Scott?! It's not because of him, or the Argents, let me fucking tell you that! He betrayed me; he got you kidnapped-he himself has hurt you in the past because he is such a goddamned potato, and I want to tear him apart! You know what stops me?"

Stiles's eyes widen, his arms twisting in Derek's grip, and he lunges, he clings. Derek lifts and moves them both until Stiles and he are laying sideways, a deep, rumbling growl vibrating through Derek's chest and into Stiles's head the entire time, even though Derek's hands are running over him as if checking for injury; even though he's touching like putting any pressure behind it at all could leave a bruise. Stiles just grips him tighter, "You kind of love me, don't you?"

Derek stops growling in order to heave a sigh, "_Fucking. Idiot_." He grinds out, and Stiles can't help the manic giggle. "How the hell have you managed to survive this long?"

"For one thing: You are entirely to blame in the survival department. For another: It's not like you've been serenading me, Derek."

Derek doesn't have to tell him he's an idiot again, because he realizes, he finally fucking _sees_.

"I kind of love you, too." Stiles mumbles with his lips against Derek's shoulder now. Stiles takes a deep breath, and he realizes he isn't drowning; Derek's smell fills his nose and his warmth seeps into Stiles's body and his strength makes Stiles feel small and breakable and so completely protected he's not drowning anymore, he's safe and sound in the cradle of a ship that won't sink. "No...I really love you."

"I love you, too, you idiot." Derek chuckles this time, his hand cradling the back of Stiles's head. He shifts and Stiles angles his face, and they _fit_. It's a kiss as easy as breathing, and as light as a butterfly's wing. It's sweet and it's warm and it's expanding in Stiles's chest like a supernova, like a cosmic event that could create or destroy, and Stiles doesn't care what happens beyond Derek's tongue licking into his mouth; he doesn't give a shit if he had a darkness-if he wanted to die. He will live or die, fighting whatever threatens what keeps him safe, because he won't lose _this_.

Derek kisses Stiles's lips in a light peck once, twice, before fully ending it, like he can't get enough. Stiles knows the feeling, he's been torn apart by it. Stiles and Derek share air for a long, long time; Stiles can feel Derek's heartbeat under his palm, and Derek is holding onto him like he's both afraid he might leave and ready to let him if he wants to run. Slow and real, Stiles's mouth pulls up, into a grin; it's the first one he's had in a long time, honest and open and glowing with joy because Derek is in his arms, in his bed, and he wants him-loves him.

Derek's on top of him, snarling protectively, almost before Stiles hears the inhuman shriek of rage.

Ms. Morrell stands near his desk, her eyes glowing canary yellow and her hands talons, her mouth a gaping hole of rows upon rows of decayed, gnashing teeth. Neither of them know what the fuck is going on, and then Deaton bursts through Stiles's bedroom door, his own eyes flashing silver before he raises a palm and the room is engulfed in white light, with Ms. Morrell at the epicentre. Derek curls over and around him, using his own body as a shield, and Stiles can't do anything but close his eyes and pray that Derek _doesn't get hurt_. Derek's vibrating above him as the light dissipates, and Stiles pries his eyes open, trying to knock Derek off of him to make sure Derek isn't hurt. His hand goes over intact cloth and through dry, clean hair with no blood caked into it, and still he can't quell his panic. Derek sits back on his haunches enough to lift Stiles up and sit him straighter, his own eyes with their goddamn confusing colour sweeping over Stiles again and again, checking for injury when there is none. Stiles touches his face and Derek nods once, getting a nod in return at the question in his eyes.

They turn to Deaton, and are met with a beam angels would be jealous of, "What the ever-loving _hell_ just happened?" Stiles grits out, and if he's a little shrill and a little breathless, they'll have to deal with that.

"You just banished a nibutobu. A demon said to feed off of the misery and depression of others." Stiles blinks owlishly at him.

"I did no such thing; you were the one with the flashy and the…" Stiles trails off, looking at Derek again as if he's scared Derek is a mirage. He kind of is scared of that, but no one will call him on it if they know what's good for them.

"You were the one that broke its hold, let me take power from your joy to banish it completely."

"...So my guidance counsellor...was a monster feeding off of misery-"

"With a special love for the taste of yours, I'd imagine." Deaton tells him flippantly, like he's commenting on the weather. He leans against Stiles's desk, his silver eyes warm and laughing.

Stiles kind of sways where he's propped up on his arm more than he nods, eyes distant and body bone-tired. "What are you?"

"Complicated," Deaton tells him flippantly, and Derek pins the man with a look, "I was the mate of one of her victims. When fate sets up two people to be together inextricably, it doesn't take kindly to being torn asunder. I, and a handful of others over the years, have gotten the power to hunt and banish them. Had you succumbed, Derek would've been given the choice."

And, wow, now isn't _that_ a lot to handle in a sentence? Stiles swallows thickly, his heart stuttering and a downright agonizing kind of hope that knows-just _knows_-it'll be crushed swirling in his chest. Derek's perfectly calm and steady as he puts his hand over Stiles's, expression unchanging though Stiles felt warmer.

"Your mate's strong, Stiles. Strong enough to have kept you alive even before walking into your life. And, Derek, when I said that he needed to trust you, that you needed to trust him, I wasn't joking. You're both fucking idiots." Deaton snaps his fingers, and he actually disappears.

Stiles looks over at Derek with sarcasm written in every line of his features, and Derek just shakes his head. "Again, how do you survive?"

Stiles grins, sharp and fast and predatory. He hopes Derek gets the message, "This one is also down to you, now shut up and kiss me, you fool. Lets see what else we can banish before the night is out."

"Not your virginity. We will wait until you are eighteen. Your father has guns."

Stiles laughs into Derek's shoulder, and delights in just being able to _breathe_.

* * *

**A/N: And to think, I still haven't actually watched a single episode...**

**Tumblr rules.  
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**Anywho: No beta, as always, I hope you enjoyed! *heart*  
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